Broken Brotherhood
by princessamaterasu
Summary: A songfic for an event that has jerked the heart strings of many Hetalia fans. England reflects on the events before, during, and after the American Revolution. Will he be able to deal with the pain, or will it get the better of him? Song: My Immortal Artist: Evenescence


I do not own Hetalia. This was originally a songfic, but someone threatened to report me if I didn't take the lyrics off, so please listen to My Immortal and think of England.

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England slowly sinks down into his plush chair. His sitting room is warmly lit by the fire in the fireplace. It's very comfortable. He even has a nice, steaming cup of tea on the small table next to him. But none of this matters. Not anymore.

England's eyes rest on a book sitting on the table next to the other plush chair in the room. It's a storybook full of fairytales. **He** must have forgotten to take that with **him** when **he-**

England can't finish the thought. It's been a week since **he **left, but England still hasn't come to terms with it.

He would hear the house creak and think it was **him** walking around before reminding himself **he** was gone now. He would look up from his newspaper to ask **his** opinion on some story he just read, then look back down when he was met with silence. He would see a forgotten item and smile sadly at the memories it brought back. Then he would sit and cry for hours.

The memories. They aren't bad memories, but they contain a certain element he'll never have again.

**America.**

England remembers the countless cuts and bruises he had to tend to over the years. When he was younger, America would cry and cry no matter how big, or small, the injury was. Every time, without fail, England would patch him up, and wipe away the big crocodile tears that would roll down America's face.

"Now what did I say about running through the woods?" England would say, or, "How many times do I have to tell you not to jump off the swing?"

America would always reply, "At least a hundred," with a sniffle.

And to that England always said, "And how many more times are you going to make me say it? You need to act more like a gentleman."

Then he would ruffle America's hair and stand up. Little America would jump up, wounds forgotten, and scamper off to have another adventure or play with Canada.

But that was all in the past.

England sighs and shifts in his chair. The past is what seems to haunt him the most. America has his independence now, and England can't change that, no matter how much he wishes he could. Did America even consider the effect his choice would have? England sighs again and reached for his tea.

He has effectively removed anything that reminds him of his former ward. That's what he calls America now because he doesn't like referring to America as his brother anymore. Any picture, book, old toy, piece of clothing, and even random nicknack, that faintly reminds England of America, he has gotten rid of it. Some things had missed his thorough search, as the forgotten book testifies.

It had been hard at first. During the first few days, the mere thought of America was enough to bring England close to tears. Then one day he snapped. In a haze, he furiously went through every room and stripped it of anything that reminded him of his rebellious younger brother. At the time he still thought if america as his brother. Every room he left, he left in a mess. Armfuls of random things were thrown in the trash, and when the trash was full, he just threw it out into the yard.

Then he came across something that made him stop. It was a picture of the two of them together at some sort of formal event. America was wearing that tux England had gotten him. It was one of the few things America actually took with him. In the picture they were both smiling, and America had his arm around England.

The picture fell out of England's hands as he dropped to his knees and bent over. He couldn't hold back the tears anymore. All the pain came flooding back. Everywhere England looked, all he could see was America. His face, his voice, his laugh, they haunted him everywhere be went, and he just couldn't take it anymore.

He doesn't know how long he kneeled there crying. The next thing he remembers is waking up on the floor with the picture in pieces.

Even with his house mostly cleared of memories, England's head couldn't be cleared so easily. He takes a sip of his tea deep in thought. Even though that fateful day was only a week ago, to England, it seems like a lifetime. His life had changed so drastically that he feels like he is living a different life. His mind drifts back to that awful day.

The rain had poured down from the sky as if the heavens mourned what had become of the two men. One had stood tall with a musket in his hand. The other kneeled in the mud, his musket laying to his right. England had clenched his fist. Why did it have to be this way? Why couldn't he just listen?

Then England reached for his musket and slowly stood up. He faced the rebellious young man with a newfound determination. That's all he was after all, a rebellious kid. England would keep him in line like he had done many times before. How was this any different?

But in many ways it was.

"Hey England," America called, "I'm choosing liberty after all." He raised his musket. "Acknowledge it!"

England said something as he raised his musket in return, but he can't quite recall what. Then he charges.

England shifts in his chair and quickly changes his thoughts.

He thinks of the many sleepless nights caused by America waking up scared. He would often be too scared to sleep because he read some scary story during the day. Even back then America had liked horror, even if he couldn't handle it.

England would have to sit next to the bed and hold America's hand while he would whimper and explain why he was so scared. Sometimes he cried, and sometimes he didn't. When he got older he didn't always call for England. Instead he would get out of bed and light the lamp next to his bed. He would lay there with the lamp lit until he fell asleep. When that happened, England would come in later to blow the lamp out. America never realized he did that though.

England takes a long drink of tea and then sets his cup down on the table. It fits perfectly in the saucer that is already resting on the table. He then slowly rubs his temple. Life used to be so much simpler when America was young. It's easier to think about too. England stands up and walks over to a window in his sitting room opposite his chair. It's next to the chair America used to occupy. It's raining again.

As England stares out into the wet evening, a thought slowly forms in his head, and then a feeling deep in his heart.

All this cleaning and rewiring of though has been England's way of coping with reality. The reality that America is no longer here. But in a way he is still here. He's here in memory, but more importantly England still feels him in his heart. England brightens a little at the thought.

But then, why did he leave? The thought hits England like a blow to the chest. Was it possible America didn't think of England as dearly as England thought of him? Have all these years meant nothing?

England quickly looks away from the window, his face scrunched up in pain and regret. Is it his fault America left? Was he not a good enough brother? There's no use denying it anymore. America was, and always will be, his brother.

England drops to his knees. The pain is more than he can bear. His head falls back as he tears begin to flow down his face, and all he can do is stare at the ceiling. That's when another, more painful thought, crosses his mind. He's alone now, but when has it been any different?

He's always been alone.

Indiscernible wails and pained sounds come from England as he finally lets himself drop to the ground. It's true, he has always been alone. Since the moment he was born, he was alone. He grew up picked on by Vikings and then France. No one ever took him seriously. Even now, with all the power, and influence around the world, that he has, no one gives him the respect he deserves.

England's mind goes back to all the lonely days he spent as a kid by the lake. France was the only one who visited him, and that was just to brag about his newest fashion trends. Trends England would never be a part of. No one wanted him around, not even stupid trends.

He was always alone.

But England had thought America would change that. He thought finally he would have someone to laugh with. Someone who wouldn't laugh at his cooking, or his eyebrows.

That's all a dream now.

England just lays on the floor with tears silently streaming down his face. He's stopped screaming, and now lays there numb. All he thinks about now is reaching for America's hand when America was little. The memory plays over and over in England's mind. Each time, America smiles and reaches for England's hand in return. He had spent years holding America's hand and guiding him through life.

Years and years and years.

England slowly closes his eyes as a new, peaceful thought comes into his mind. Although America is gone, that doesn't mean he isn't England's brother anymore. They will always have that connection. At least, England will always think so.

He doesn't realize it, but the tears have stopped. His tear stained face has finally reached a calm expression. Though the years are gone, there are many more to come. England decides he will use those years to try to reclaim as much of the brotherhood they once had as he can, no matter how long it takes because he has realized something very important. Although America is gone, England is still his brother. Being a brother means you give the other person your all.

"All of me," England whispers quietly to himself.

No matter what.


End file.
